“The list is on your comp,” he told her.
“Great. Maybe you’d find it interesting to split the list with me, cull out married couples—first requirement. Married couples in the upper-class strata—second requirement. Married couples with no children—at least, none living at home. Married couples where the wife is a serious looker. And last, single-family residence. He doesn’t do apartment buildings or duplexes. Not yet anyway.”
“I can follow that. Have you considered same-sex couples? It isn’t pattern, as yet, but isn’t it possible he’d target a beautiful woman whatever her orientation?”
She jabbed a finger at him. “Damn good point. I’d put that as a lower probability because I think it’s a mom-and-dad deal, but it’s definitely a possibility. So … don’t discriminate.”
“What does the sign say in your bullpen? ‘No matter your race, creed, sexual orientation, or political affiliation, we protect and serve. Because you could get dead.’”
“Even if you were an asshole. We added an addendum.”
On a half laugh, he jabbed a finger back at her. “Well done.”
“Okay. So all of that, just pushing the married and the money. And the looks.”
“I believe I’ll work in here with you, on your auxiliary. That way we can coordinate more easily.”
“Pull up a chair. You start at the top, I’ll start at the bottom.”
“You should know there are more than eighteen hundred names.” And considering, he tugged off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket.
She huffed out a breath. “They won’t all be married. We’ll backtrack for legal cohabs, put them in another lane. But we’re starting with married.”
Nodding, he rolled up his shirtsleeves. “You should know Mavis and Leonardo are on here, as are the Miras.”
Her sister, she thought. Mavis Freestone stood as her sister in everything but blood. “Mavis lives in an apartment building, and has a kid. Mira’s a looker, but she’s not his type—so far. She’s older than any of his vics thus far. I think he’ll stick to pattern.”
It wasn’t a fast job, and it was mindless, which wasn’t always an advantage. Eve worked split screen, the list on one side as she did quick runs on the names, making a note when she hit one that fit all requirements.
She slogged through a hundred, switched back to coffee.
They worked in near silence, even when Galahad gave up the sleep chair to leap into Roarke’s lap, curl there.
At the halfway point, Roarke sat back. “Let’s take that dinner break before our brains melt.”
“What?” She looked up, distracted, then realized a low-grade headache had already started to brew. A short break wouldn’t hurt as she couldn’t do anything about whatever she put together tonight anyway.
“Sure. Yeah. Good. But maybe—”
He watched her eyes shift to the table by the terrace doors. “A deal’s a deal, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, yeah. You want to eat down in the dining room?”
“I had something else in mind.” He got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet before she found some excuse. He glanced at the cat as he drew Eve to the elevator. “It’s a table for two tonight, my friend. You’ll find your dinner down in the kitchen.”
He tugged her into the elevator, kissed her between the eyes—where he’d already diagnosed that low-grade headache. “Roof terrace,” he ordered.
“Going fancy?”
“I expect the view will be.”
As usual, he was right.
It was like being in a reverse snow globe, Eve thought. Outside the glass dome, in the streams of the exterior lights, the snow fell fast, as if shaken from the sky by an angry hand. Winter winds swirled and tossed it into dramatic sweeps, and through the sweeps, the lights of the city gleamed and sparked. The great park spread in a study of black and white. The streets rayed in stark lines, empty of traffic with only a scatter of emergency vehicles trudging through the thick carpet of snow.
He lit candles on a table already set for two with silver warmers over the plates.
“How’d you manage this?”
“I gave Summerset an ETA.” He poured rich red wine for both, took her hand so they looked out the wide glass together. “We’re lucky, you and I. To be up here, warm and safe, without the worry of keeping that way. I remember being neither as a boy in Dublin when winter hit hard.”
“I don’t think I ever actually felt the snow until I was maybe nine or ten. Even then I sort of remember thinking: It’s cold and wet. What’s everybody so excited about? But from up here it looks pretty spectacular. Nice choice for dinner, ace. Very nice.”
“Let’s see what you think of the meal.”
He lifted the warming lids. Some sort of pasta deal, she noted, which was never wrong in her book. Not spaghetti, but the tube things in sauce with cheese melted all over it.
And the smell added more warmth and some spice to the air.
Reminded her stomach it wanted food.
“Looks great. What is it?”
“Baked penne, I believe.” No point in mentioning the spinach.